


In Which Mycroft Admires John's Nerves of Steel

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Humor, M/M, Smut, no redeeming value
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:52:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>A ficlet for a sherlockmas Sherlock's Summer Vacay prompt from mahmfic, #89: Mycroft/John, How long can we keep doing this until Sherlock finds out?</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Mycroft Admires John's Nerves of Steel

"How long can we keep doing this before Sherlock finds out?"  
  
"Hush now, John. I'd rather not have you thinking of my brother while you're in my bed."  
  
John stretched and yawned and then curled his naked body around this tall, pale, oh-so-accommodating Holmes. The Holmes who didn't demand that he make tea or buy milk, but offered him Belgian chocolates as a thank you after their first night together. The Holmes who didn't reach into John's jacket to steal his mobile, but reached into his pants to get him off whenever and wherever he asked for the favor. The Holmes whose cock tasted sublime--and so different each time he took it into his mouth--like rich, fruity red wine; fresh, briny oysters; candy floss--all sinfully delicious and always making John want more.  
  
For their affair to survive, knowing Sherlock's violently jealous nature, John and Mycroft had to speak and text each other in code. Having found that their carnal desires fit together as neatly and pleasurably as . . . well, as did all the relevant parts of their bodies, really--neither man wanted to risk being found out by Sherlock. Sherlock was so possessive, so competitive when it came to his relationship with Mycroft, that John felt sure Sherlock would skin them both alive if he knew. And then boil them until the meat fell off their bones. And then pack their bones in pickle jars and leave them in the fridge. Something like that, anyway.  
  
Mycroft purred and shifted, so he could stroke John slowly, making sure they both enjoyed the increasing warmth, the rush of blood and endorphins, the stiffening of John's magnificent, well-traveled cock (three continents!), nearly as well-traveled as Mycroft's own (five continents and three oceans!) The morning culminated, as had the night before, in squeals of climactic passion so high and sweet that only Mycroft's corgis could hear them.  
  
As the months went by and Sherlock seemed not to catch on, they grew a little bolder. At least Mycroft grew bolder. People assumed he was a man of many kinks, but in fact, he had only one, and with John, he was able to indulge it frequently. Mycroft liked to watch his lovers get very hard, very fast--in public. Mycroft had decided early on that his code word for John's cock would be "nerves of steel,"* and John had been flattered, of course--until Mycroft began using the euphemysm to drive John close to madness and ecstasy at every opportunity.  
  
Mycroft teased John in front of colleagues and friends at a gala honouring Sherlock's latest success. Raising a glass to the crime-fighting sensations, he cooed, "What bravery you both showed in the Yorkshire case. I so admire your amazing nerves of steel, John." John twitched and felt his trousers tighten under Mycroft's wicked gaze. He downed his champagne quickly before meeting Mycroft in the carpark to relieve their mutual need in a slightly cramped, late model Mercedes with supple leather seats.  
  
At Mrs. Hudson's birthday party, Mycroft told the assembled guests frankly how nervous he was about his upcoming trip to a rather nasty war zone in northern Africa. "Dear me, if only I had your nerves of steel in me right now, John. I"m sure I wouldn't be afraid at all." John recalled the orgasm he had with Mycroft bent over the bread and cheese case at Speedy's later that night to be, oddly enough, not speedy at all, but slow and wondrously filthy.  
  
And then, in front of the assembled Houses of Parliament, Mycroft introduced his brother and John, detailing all the reasons they were about to receive high commendations for infiltrating and destroying a ring of spies and counterspies. Applause echoed, and then Mycroft quieted the crowd and ended his speech reverently, praising his brother's intellect and courage and then turning to John to declare, "To most, John Watson appears to be a modest, unassuming young man. But he is truly a hero. He doesn't show his nerves of steel to just anyone. No indeed. But I can assure you, I've had a taste, and it's quite a treat!" The choking fit of laughter that overcame John at that moment was put down to the pressure he'd been under for months during the espionage case, and replayed frequently on late-night television newscasts. Fortunately, he was standing behind a large group of movie stars, Royals, and miscellaneous celebrities, and the bulge in his trousers was hidden by Pippa's very large pink-feathered hat.  
  
  
Mycroft and John enjoyed months of erotic bliss before Sherlock finally--inevitably--found them out. When he did, it was all Mycroft's fault, of course. He couldn't bear being away from John while he and Sherlock were gadding about on the Baskerville case, so he'd asked John to meet him in the woods for a quickie while Sherlock was sleeping off the excitement of solving the case and seeing Lestrade stumble around with a gun in the dark.  
  
As John tiptoed back into the hotel room after his tryst and tried to slip into his bed as quietly as possible, Sherlock sat bolt upright in the bed across the room and shouted angrily, "My God, can't you two give it a rest for a few days! Do you have to be in each other's pants every moment of every day? It's disgusting!"  
  
John gulped. He trembled. He stood with one foot in the bed and one foot on the cold wooden floor, wondering what fate was going to befall him. Finally he asked quietly, "How . . . how did you know, Sherlock?"  
  
"You smell like cake! Mycroft's favorite seven-layer cake with raspberry ganache! I think I'm going to vomit! Did he make you eat cake with him before or after or during?!"  
  
"Uh. Well .  . . we did have  a bit of cake before. . . . erm, and after. (And maybe a little crumb or two during) But he didn't _make_ me! I don't just do everything your brother tells me!"  
  
There was a snicker from the other side of Sherlock's bed. "Sure, John. That's what we all say." A grey head appeared, along with a naked shoulder and an arm that reached over to pull Sherlock down into a long, sloppy kiss. "Shut up and leave him alone, Sherlock. You've known about them for ages, and it's kept Mycroft busy and out of your hair--which makes you happy, right? So just leave them alone. We've got business to finish, if John would be so kind as to get his arse--and his nerves of steel-- out of here."  
  
And John, having a strong moral sense and Mycroft's number on speed-dial, quickly did just that.

 

*John's code name for Mycroft's penis was "Dickens," because of the man's epically long lovemaking sessions in 15 to 20 serial installments that built towards grand, often sentimental climaxes. But sometimes he just called it the bumbershoot.


End file.
